Stranger in Town (8 page)

THE FOOD WAS GOOD. Nicely served by a pleasant-faced waitress in a quiet, uncrowded dining room. Shayne sat alone at a table by a window with sunshine coming in from the street, ate a large amount of food and postponed all thinking until he settled back with a pot of coffee to wash down a large serving of excellent strawberry shortcake.

There wasn’t any discernible pattern yet. He went over and over the small store of facts thus far garnered, and remained as much at sea as ever. Dr. Philbrick, for instance. What had actually been behind his effort to have Shayne turned away from his office without interviewing him? Had it, indeed, been due solely to the fact that he had learned Shayne was a private detective who had been arrested by local police the night before, or had he suspected why the detective wanted to see him… and wished to avoid answering questions about the girl? About Miss Buttrell… if that was her name. There was no proof as yet, Shayne reminded himself, that her name was Buttrell. Her father had
said
he was Amos Buttrell, but he had also said he was at the Roney Plaza for the season. Since the second statement was false, he might have given a false name as well. No one had bothered to check the man’s identity, of course. There had been no reason why they should. They were pleased enough to have a man of evident wealth turn up to identify the girl and take her away from the hospital. Glad to have her bill paid and to be relieved of the responsibility.

But why would a father lie about his identity under those circumstances? Because he knew his daughter had been engaged in some criminal activities and wanted to cover up for her? Could be. Also, could be a hundred other reasons.

Shayne poured a second cup of coffee and lit his third cigarette, and again carefully went over the information contained in the clipping found in the pocket of a gunman who had been waiting for him to appear at his Miami office that morning.

An assistant State’s Attorney from Orlando who had been burned to death in his wrecked car the same night Amy Buttrell (call her that for want of a better name) had been brought to the hospital by an unidentified motorist in a state of shock.

It was too much to think the possession of the clipping had been mere coincidence. It indicated a definite connection between the girl and Randolph Harris. Both injured near Brockton the same night. Her participation in the attack on Shayne last night, and the hood’s unexplained appearance at his office this morning.

That was at least one coincidence too many to swallow.

Orlando! Randolph Harris lived in Orlando, forty miles north of Brockton. And a Professor Henderson lived in Orlando also. Father of a girl who looked enough like Amy Buttrell that the professor had feared he recognized her from the newspaper picture. Professor Henderson had been greatly relieved, Dr. Philbrick had stated, when he learned that the girl could not possibly be his daughter because she had already been identified by a man who called himself Amos Buttrell and said he lived in Miami.

Obviously, the professor would not have pressed his inquiries beyond that point.

Shayne got up from the dining table hastily when he reached this point in his thinking. His waitress hurried to him with a luncheon check, and Shayne signed it and gave her a dollar bill.

Upstairs in his suite again, he got the long distance operator and told her, “I want to talk to a Professor Henderson in Orlando. I don’t know his name or initials, or his street address. He teaches at Rollins College in Winter Park. Will you try to locate him for me?”

The operator told him she would try, and that she would call him back as soon as she had the professor on the wire. Shayne hung up, and prowled restlessly up and down the length of his sitting room, tugging at his earlobe with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand while the knobby fingers of his right clawed through coarse red hair on his head.

There had to be a connection, he told himself. Suppose the girl
was
Professor Henderson’s daughter! That meant that the man who called himself Amos Buttrell was an imposter. That for reasons of his own he had come to the hospital and pretended to identify the girl as his daughter Amy and taken her away with him.

There would have been nothing to prevent it. Suffering from amnesia, the girl could not protest that he was not her father. In her state, she must have accepted him without question. Just as Dr. Philbrick and the authorities had accepted him without question.

And he hadn’t taken her back to Miami. That much was clear. Because she had still been in Brockton last night.

His telephone rang. Shayne reached it in two long strides. The operator said, “On your call to Orlando. We have Mr. Henderson on the wire. Go ahead, please.”

Shayne said, “Professor Henderson? My name is Michael Shayne and I’m calling you from Brockton.”

“Shayne? In what connection…?” The voice was precise and cultivated. A trifle thin and peevish.

Shayne said swiftly, “I’m a detective working on the case of the girl who had an accident here last Thursday night and suffered amnesia. I understand you telephoned from Orlando Friday after seeing her picture in the paper, thinking it might be your daughter.”

“Jean. Yes. It did give me a frightful turn when I saw the picture so like my Jean. But it wasn’t, you know. I was told she had been positively identified as someone else before I telephoned.”

“I know.” Shayne paused, then went on quickly. “It now appears there is a slight possibility that first identification of the girl may have been an error. Just to make certain… has your daughter turned up safe in the meantime?”

“Why, yes. That is… I have no reason to assume otherwise. You see, Mr.… ah… what’s the name?”

“Shayne.”

“Of course. Stupid of me. You see, Mr. Shayne, I didn’t really see how it could possibly be Jean in Brockton even when I telephoned. She had no reason to be near Brockton that night, and I was morally certain she wasn’t, but when I saw that picture so like her and because of the… ah… coincidence of the previous accident to her younger sister which was naturally strongly in my mind, I allowed myself to jump to the conclusion that it might
be
Jean. You say, now, that there might be some mistake? Dear me. You don’t mean to imply that… that…” The professor’s voice faltered thinly into disbelieving silence.

“I don’t want to imply anything,” said Shayne soothingly. “Do you mean you still aren’t sure it wasn’t your daughter?”

“Why I… I… this is so very sudden. I made no further inquiries, Mr. Shayne. My apprehensions were put at rest and I saw no need to.”

“You mean you’re not actually certain where your daughter is?”

“I… of course assumed she was with her friends on their cruise. They had planned to sail from Apalachicola early Friday morning, you see, to be gone for a week. Since Brockton is not even on the bus route from here to Apalachicola, you can see how I did not consider it possible for Jean to have been injured in Brockton. Yet, with Jeanette’s recent accident so strongly in my thoughts, I could not refrain from wondering… ah… you see, do you not?”

“Not quite,” sighed Shayne. “You say your daughter Jean went by bus Thursday afternoon to Apalachicola to go on a cruise with friends?”

“Exactly. And I assume, of course, that she is on the cruise with them now. Certainly, they would have informed me before this had she not arrived safely.”

“But you’ve had no definite word from her since Thursday?”

“N-n-no. That’s quite true.”

“Do you know the names of her friends in Apalachicola?”

“Oh, yes. Certainly. Mr. and Mrs. Larch. Old family friends. I assure you, Mr. Shayne…”

“I think you’d better try to telephone them,” interrupted Shayne. “If we can just be certain your daughter is safely on a cruise, it will simplify our investigation here.”

“But they are somewhere in the Gulf on a sailboat,” protested Henderson. “Don’t you see? I did attempt to telephone Mr. Larch Friday after I had seen the picture I thought might be Jean. They had left early in the morning to be gone a week.”

“And there’s no possibility of contacting them now?”

“None, I’m afraid.”

“Do you
know
your daughter took the bus to Apalachicola?”

“If by that, you mean did I actually see her board the bus… the answer is no. She had planned to take the six o’clock bus, and so far as I know, she did so. For the love of heaven, Mr. Shayne, tell me what you do suspect. You say there may have been an error. Does this mean you suspect the amnesia victim may have been Jean after all?”

“We don’t want to worry you unduly,” said Shayne. “Probably not. But please answer a couple more questions. Was your daughter acquainted with Randolph Harris?”

“Harris? Randolph Harris?” The professor’s voice held no note of recognition. “Who may he be?”

“A young attorney who lives in Orlando. Previously connected with the State’s Attorney’s office there. I wondered if your daughter knew him.”

“I’m certain she doesn’t. Jean is only nineteen, and since her mother died three years ago we have been very close. I think I can say I have her complete confidence and know all of her friends. I have never heard her mention the name of Randolph Harris among them.”

“One more thing. You spoke twice about an accident to a younger daughter. Something about the coincidence that led you to wonder if the other girl could be Jean even though you were quite positive she was on a bus to Apalachicola at the time.”

“Yes. Jeanette. If you are a detective in Brockton, you certainly must recall the tragic details. Less than a month ago, it was. A terrible shock. Jeanette was such a gay and fun-loving girl. Quite unlike her older sister, Jean, who inherited my traits, I fear, rather than those of her mother. With the grief of Jeanette’s loss so fresh in my mind, you can understand why I felt impelled to investigate the remote possibility that the girl whose picture I saw in the paper might be Jean.”

“Of course,” said Shayne heartily, deciding it would be best not to admit that he wasn’t on the Brockton force and knew nothing about the prior accident. “Thank you every much indeed for your splendid cooperation,” he went on. “It may be that I’ll want to run up there a little later on just to confirm a few minor details. Will you give me your address and tell me what time you’ll be at home?”

Professor Henderson gave him a street address in Orlando, and said he’d be at home all afternoon. He was pathetically anxious to ask more questions about the new development in the case, but Shayne cut him off as gently as he could and hung up with a promise to let Henderson know the first moment they had any definite news.

Beads of sweat stood on Shayne’s corrugated forehead, and his angular jaw was set hard as he slowly stood up. His gray eyes were blank and unseeing as he mechanically groped for the cognac bottle and poured out a small drink. He stood with it gripped tightly in his hand, looking across the room and out the windows to the bright sunlight lying peacefully on the small city of Brockton, but his gaze was focussed inward.

Another fatal accident in Brockton a month ago.
Too many accidents.
The three words kept pounding through his mind. Altogether too many accidents in a short space of time for such a small place.

A young girl from Orlando named Jeanette Henderson a month ago. A young attorney from Orlando last Thursday night. A girl who looked enough like Jeanette’s sister to be her double also last Thursday night. And last night a pair of cold-blooded killers named Gene and Mule assaulting Michael Shayne in a bar where no one could possibly have known he would be, dragging him out to their car and driving out onto a deserted country road to stage another “accident.” But for the grace of God and by virtue of an exceedingly hard head,
he
would have been the fourth “accident” victim within a month in Brockton.

Entirely too damned many accidents!

On an impulse, Shayne downed his drink and turned to the telephone book again. Luckily, he found only one Grimes listed, and he asked the switchboard for his number.

While he waited, he thought back to the scene of his arrest last night, and to the mock trial before Judge Grayson that morning. Grimes was the older cop who had stayed in the patrol car until his younger partner had succeeded in badgering Shayne into protesting his arrest. Not until Burke had called for help, had Grimes inserted himself into the situation.

And in court the older policeman had grinned at him with a twinkle in his eye when Shayne apologized for the trouble he had made. There were several things Shayne needed from the official police records, and if Grimes could be a pipeline…

A woman’s cheerful voice came over the line, “Hello?”

“Is Mr. Grimes there?”

“He is that. Hold on while I call him.” He heard her voice raised loudly. “George! Somebody wants you on the telephone.”

There was a brief wait and then a thick voice, “Yeh? Whosit calling?”

“A guy who promised to buy you a drink this morning.”

“Yeh?” Grimes’ voice was incredulous. “I don’t get it. Who’d you say?”

“In police court this morning. Mike Shayne from Miami.”

“Oh, hey! Sure.” Grimes chuckled deeply. “You still around? I made sure you’d had plenty of Brockton law.”

“I’m still around. And I did get away with the price of a drink. Wondered if you could join me for a couple?”

“Well, say, sure.” Grimes sounded pleased and he lowered his voice. “I don’t go on duty till four. Whereabouts?”

“You name it. I’m a stranger here myself.”

“Where you now?”

“The Manor Hotel.”

“There’s a little place down the street toward the station. Harry’s Hangout. Meet you there in twenty minutes?”

Shayne said, “It’s a date,” and hung up. He rubbed his jaw and decided he had lime to shave before meeting Grimes, and went swiftly into the bathroom.

MICHAEL SHAYNE was seated in the front booth at Harry’s Hideout nursing a slug of domestic brandy in a tall glass, diluted with ice cubes and soda, when George Grimes came in the front door. The patrolman was in uniform, but his blue coat was unbuttoned, shirt open at the throat, and he was unarmed.

He paused inside the door and grinned quizzically at the redhead, pushed his peaked cap back on a broad, perspiring forehead and sat down opposite him. He said, “So it’s sure-enough true, huh?” wrinkling his wide nose at Shayne’s glass. “Just like you see it on TV. You private eyes do slobber up that stuff all hours of the day.”

Shayne grinned and said. “Not a damned thing you see on TV is true. You’re not working either, so how about you slobbering up some?”

Grimes shook his head as the small, dapper proprietor approached their booth. “Nothing stronger’n beer for me. Got to go on the four o’clock shift. Suds, Harry.”

“And keep his glass from getting too empty,” Shayne told Harry amiably.

“This is real nice of you,” Grimes told him. “Glad there ain’t no hard feelings about last night, though I guess I wouldn’t have blamed you much the way that Burke pushed you around.”

Shayne grinned and said, “Young cops. They’re all alike. Give him ten years on the Force and he’ll be taking it in his stride.”

“Yeh, but… You wasn’t sure-enough drunk last night, huh? Burke didn’t have no right…”

Shayne took a cigarette and slid the pack across to Grimes. He said, “Forget it. I will say I was quite impressed by the way you boys handle traffic problems. Shouldn’t have many accidents around here if you pick every guy up soon as he takes a few drinks.”

“We can’t get ’em all,” Grimes said genially. His beer arrived and he lifted the glass in a salute, drank half of it off and smacked his lips loudly. “Sure-enough, I’m surprised you’re still around. Take it easy, huh? I heard Ollie sweetening up Burke this morning for the way he handled you. He’s just plain got a down on privates, Ollie has.”

“Ollie?” said Shayne with interest. “That would be Chief Hanger?”

“Yeh. And a mean son-of-a-bitch if you ever saw one. You here on a case? Don’t see no blonde secretaries hanging around.” Grimes laughed heartily at his own wit and drained his glass.

“Matter-of-fact, I was just driving through last night. I’m not kidding, though, when I said I was interested in your auto accident rate hereabouts. Thought I might check a little and see if strict enforcement like you and Burke handed out last night does cut them down.”

“You kidding?” Grimes was ready to grin at the joke, but Shayne remained perfectly serious. “Hell, no,” Grimes said after a moment. “We have our fair share, I reckon. Just last night we had a hit-run outside town.”

“That so?” Shayne displayed a slight interest. “Just last night when you wouldn’t let
me
drive? Fatal?”

“Neck and back was busted.” Harry brought a full glass of beer and Grimes nodded his thanks to Shayne. “Not that it was any great loss,” he went on thoughtfully. “We can get along without Mule easy.”

“You mean it was a mule that was killed?”

Grimes guffawed at that. “Naw. Fellow they call Mule Larsen. Hangs around town doing odd jobs for drinks. And I mean odd more’n one way if you get what I mean.”

“Tough?”

“Plenty tough. Been hauled in three times I know of for beating guys up. One of ’em died, but they couldn’t prove Mule did it.”

“A quiet little place like this,” said Shayne thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t think there’d be any real crime problem. Like anybody to require the services of this Mule you speak of and his ‘odd’ jobs. I suppose you meant rough stuff by that.”

“Yeh.” Grimes turned his glass slowly on the table in front of him. “You get stuff like that anywhere, I guess. No matter how big or little the town. Hell, I started out as constable in Lemon Acres, population four hundred and seventy-two. Had a bootlegging syndicate there, by golly, that had more hoods on the payroll than people in church on Sunday. You just can’t never tell.”

“But bootlegging’s out now. Nothing like that in Brockton.”

“There’s always something undercover for the fast-money boys to shoot at. And where there’s big money involved, you always get your ‘protection’.”

There was a note in George Grimes’ voice that led Shayne to drop that particular subject before the patrolman clammed up on him. Grimes was eager for casual shoptalk with the city detective, but if he got the idea there was a reason behind Shayne’s questions he was unlikely to be so free with his generalities.

Shayne took time to empty his glass and catch Harry’s attention to signal for two more, though Grimes protested weakly that two beers were enough for him.

“This isn’t important and I don’t expect it to be anything official,” Shayne said casually, “but while I’m in Brockton I wonder if you know anything about a hood who’s supposed to headquarter around here. First name of Gene, I think.” He proceeded to describe the leader of the three men who had attacked him the preceding night, watching for Grimes’ reactions carefully as he did so. “I just remember I ran into some dope on him in Miami recently,” he ended. “Not my case, but something the cops were bothered about.”

Grimes recognized Gene’s description. There was no doubt about that in Shayne’s mind as he watched the patrolman’s face. But he wasn’t giving much away either. When Shayne finished, he said, “I think maybe I’ve seen him around, all right, but I don’t believe we’ve got any record on him. Some guys like that keep clean in their hideaways and pull all their jobs outside.”

“Sure, I know. What brought it to my mind was I saw a man in that bar last night. You know, the one where you and your friend Burke tagged me. Reminded me of the fellow I asked about. Just what kind of joint was that anyhow?” he added ingenuously. “I just stopped in for a drink by accident. Got the impression a lot of tough boys hung out there.”

Grimes shrugged broad shoulders, hunched over his third beer. “One of half a dozen places in town we keep an eye on. Jasper Black runs it pretty quiet and we don’t bother him. He’s the bartender. I wouldn’t want to flash a big roll there late at night and take too many drinks. Man could probably lay a bet there or get propositioned by a pimp if he was so-minded.”

Shayne nodded absently and sipped from his second glass of brandy and soda. “We’ve slid ’way off from my original question about your rate of traffic accidents. You mentioned a hit-run last night. Wasn’t there an other bad accident last week?”

“You mean the Harris boy from Orlando that got burned up in his car?”

“That’s right. District Attorney or something.”

“Yeh. That was a bad one, but nothing
we
could do anything about. Damn fool tried to take a curve too fast was all. Didn’t find him or his car till next afternoon.”

“Visiting his sister in the hospital, wasn’t he?”

“Naw. That turned out a phony lead. Nobody ever has found out why he was in Brockton that night. Guy in a filling station thought he’d stopped outside town to ask directions for the Sanitarium, but where he got killed was ’way off that route.”

“Maybe he drove to the Sanitarium first and then drove there.”

“No. It was ’way south of town. Not back toward Orlando. And he didn’t go near the Sanitarium. We checked.”

“What kind of Sanitarium is it?” Shayne asked idly.

“Private.” A fleeting expression of distaste screwed up Grimes’ ruddy face. “Dipsos mostly, I guess. Different kinds of nuts, from what you hear. Expensive as hell for city folks that can afford to take the cure. Mostly society dames, I guess, from cities all over like Miami and Jax. Even from as far as Atlanta and Memphis, they say. Stands out to itself and Brockton folks don’t have anything to do with it.”

“Strictly okay? They wouldn’t have any reason for denying a man came to visit his sister if he had?” There was faint hesitation on Grimes’ part, and again Shayne felt he was treading close to a dead-end beyond which he could not go in a seemingly casual conversation.

“Don’t see why they would.” It was almost as though he were arguing with himself. “It is private and exclusive as hell, I guess, and they don’t give out a list of patients to the papers. That’s why people pay their prices. For privacy. But I don’t reckon they’d lie to us. Ollie went out himself and talked to Doc Winestock.”

“That makes two accidents in a week,” said Shayne thoughtfully, deciding not to arouse any suspicion by bringing up the girl amnesia victim. “When was your last one before that?”